


Breathe In, Breathe Out

by heavvymetalqueen



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: (of a sort), Electrocution, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavvymetalqueen/pseuds/heavvymetalqueen
Summary: Much as he loathes to admit it, Miller did a really good job, molding the kid into a perfect broken replica of their former boss.





	

Ocelot is ready to face the kid. Excited, even - and not much excites him anymore these days.

He’s seen plenty of pictures through the years. He didn’t slip through their fingers like Eli did. He’s seen him grow from scrawny kid into a man that looks way, way too much like John, in a way Eli just can’t muster up with his love of theatrics.

Much as he loathes to admit it, Miller did a really good job, molding the kid into a perfect broken replica of their former boss. He always knew his bitter resentment was going to be a great ally in his plan, whether he wanted it or not.

What he’s not expecting, is the voice.

He never actually heard the kid talk before.

He should have.

He sounds just like John. _Exactly_ like him, the same rumbling, gravelly voice he still hears in the dreams that wake him in a pool of sweat.

And for the first time in thirty years, he falters. He hesitates.

And then his hand is gone.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Tricked by his stupid emotions like a _novice_. Like not a day has passed from the only time John beat him, in Tselinoyarsk.

He spends hours in the infirmary, panting through the pain, hallucinating John, his mother, Miller. He feels John’s charred, decomposed hand gripping his missing one, demanding his loyalty. He feels Miller’s mechanical arm slowly slide off his throat as light fades from his eyes.

Fucking Miller would be happy now. He got his fucking revenge.

Yet, when they tell him they captured the kid, he has to get up. He can’t miss this. He will regret it for however long he has left if he does.

God, he’s handsome. Shirtless and sweaty and scared, tied up to the machine, it makes Ocelot’s cock twitch despite the blood loss. Roughly the same age John was when he met him. Just as cocky. Ready to be broken, twisted, used.

He’s gonna have his fun. It’s the least he can do to make up for his lost hand, for the man he lost at his hands.

The electricity coursing through that strong body is nostalgic, as are the guttural screams. Ocelot spins his gun in his left hand and wonders if he should shoot out his eye, just for symmetry’s sake.

The kid is just as strong as his father. Takes all he has to dish out at him, the electricity, the blows, the humiliation. Twice.

He follows the guards as they drag the kid’s unconscious body back to his cell, and waves them off.

He has some personal matters to attend to.

The kid’s still twitching on the cot, residual electricity trapped in his muscles. Ocelot leans over him, rubbing his cheek on the slick pecs. He doesn’t _smell_ right. He doesn’t have that slight animal scent John always had. But it’s close enough. He licks a wet stripe along the kid’s neck, biting down on the soft flesh.

The kid startles awake with a gasp. Ocelot is ready to restrain him but it doesn’t seem necessary. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, his breath ragged, uncontrollable shaking making him writhe.

Ocelot sighs as he straddles the kid’s trembling body on the cot. How nostalgic. He remembers doing this to his father, forty years ago, burning with a desire that seemed to consume him and everything around him. A simpler time.

It’s not _desire_ he’s feeling now. He’s too old, too bitter, too exhausted for desire. He fists the kid’s sweaty hair - so soft, like John’s - in his remaining hand and wrenches his head forward, pressing it between his legs.

The kid’s breath dampens his pants in seconds. Ocelot rubs his cock against that big pouty mouth, the zipper scratching the kid’s lips, drawing blood.

“You little _monster_ ,” he growls. “How dare you look like him. How dare you sound like him.” He pushes deeper. The kid’s eyes are rolled back into his head, pink drool dripping from his mouth. “How _dare you_ come here with his blood on your hands. I should fucking kill you. I should stick my dick through your _brain_ and watch you die on it.”

The kid’s rough breath is the only thing that answers him. Ocelot grinds against his face, hoping he chokes on it. He finishes with a grunt, the kid unfortunately still alive.

He climbs off him as if nothing’s happened. The kid’s head drops back on the mattress, eyes staring into nothing, just breathing through bloody, bruised lips.

“You better not have other surprises in store, _David_ ,” hisses Ocelot into his ear. “I’ll consider us even with this. Now make a goddamn effort to escape, you little shit. You’re not nearly as fun to torture as your daddy.”

He hopes the chime of his spurs as he leaves will accompany the kid in his late night screaming dreams, long after he’s dead and gone.


End file.
